


Roses Ought to Covet Honesty

by Temporarily



Category: South Park
Genre: Fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-07
Updated: 2018-03-07
Packaged: 2019-03-28 04:13:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,865
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13895997
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Temporarily/pseuds/Temporarily
Summary: The sole reason Christophe was here, hair brushed and face scrubbed, within the heart of Gregory’s family mansion was—well, Gregory. When the Englishman’s father had sent for him from across the pond he’d extended the invitation to bring a friend. Christophe told him to take Wendy. Nearly begged him to, in fact.All his surliness hadn’t done one whit of good.





	Roses Ought to Covet Honesty

**Author's Note:**

> This ship is older than I am. I love these characters, they deserve more. Enjoy.

Excluding the absence of any notable religious presence, it was everything Christophe hated packed into a single, spacious room.  

Sparkling champagne in crystal glasses delivered by waiters on silver platters. Self-righteous asshole guests in expensive clothing, most of whom had probably never so much as deigned to allow dirt under their cuticles. (They all seemed to be ruled by some misguided notion that contact with soil would wound both panache and pride.) Bright lights and polished furniture and an orchestra that played music written by classical  _English_ composers instead of perfectly acceptable and quite frankly superior  _French_ ones.  

And the cleanliness? Christophe bit back a gag.  _God_ it was awful. It was almost as awful as God. Yet another reason Christophe loved the dirt was to directly defy that saying, “Cleanliness is Godliness.” He would much rather be out in the garden, digging up all those rare and delicate roses. Perhaps he would steal them too—stash them away in places with the proper soil conditions for their beauty to truly flourish.  

But inside this ballroom, at this snooty party, everything was woefully fresh, unsoiled,  _pristine._  

The sole reason Christophe was here, hair brushed and face scrubbed, in a suit and tie within the heart of Gregory’s family mansion was—well, Gregory. When the Englishman’s father had sent for him from across the pond to attend this function, he’d extended the invitation to bring a friend. Christophe told him to take Wendy. Nearly begged him to, in fact.  

All his surliness hadn’t done one whit of good.  

Gregory was currently dancing with a wealthy businessman’s daughter, escorting her around the floor in a twirl of petal-pink crinoline petticoats. Christophe watched as the song ended and the couple parted with a bow and a curtsy, receiving adoring gazes from all the adults watching the delightful children. Gregory crossed the floor and approached his companion, snagging two glasses of cinnamon apple cider on the way.  

“Are you enjoying yourself?” Ah, Gregory, ever the gracious host. Well Christophe by no means planned on being a tolerable guest. He pointedly passed off the proffered cider to the very waiter who brought it, then started formulating a plan in his head to trip that waiter at a later time. All while sporting the most rancorous glare.  

“You think I find  _any_ of this enjoyable?” he growled. Gregory smiled charmingly. The Mole silently cursed him for looking so natural in this room, with that pressed suit and embroidered silk waistcoat, for being able to pull off a color as ridiculous as  _orange_  with formal wear. For being able to hold a crystal glass filled with non-alcoholic beverage and  _still_  look like the heir to a tycoon’s empire, not a kid playing dress-up with his daddy’s clothes.  

“I thought I ought to check up on you. I’m afraid I’ve been rather rude. You’re only here because of me and I haven’t paid you the least bit of attention.” 

“Il n’y a pas de quoi, mon ami.” It wasn’t nothing, really, but sometimes Christophe liked to pretend that he didn’t actually care about Gregory half as much as he did.  

“Nonsense. I insist that we share the next dance.”  

“Would that not attract more… critical attention from your father’s guests?” 

“I think we’re still at an age where we can get away with it. We’re just two friends practicing our steps on the dance floor, trying to imitate the grownups. They’ll find it charming.” Christophe heaved a disgruntled sigh. 

“Fine. But I will lead.” 

“Not to be rude Christophe, but… do you even know how to dance?” The Mole was so insulted he stalked away with the promise of pouring the nearest beverage he could find over Gregory’s shirt. 

 

Gregory did get his dance, and the drama of any upset glasses was successfully avoided. But while the rich and royal cooed over the sweet children sweeping across the polished planks in a waltz, while surrounded by all the materialistic, vain, conceited things he hated, Christophe came to a realization. The realization that the only thing he  _didn’t_ detest around him in that moment was Gregory of Yardale. The realization that this was often the case, no matter the location or time. That Gregory’s head of golden curls, for all their neatness, had one little lock by his ear that he hadn’t managed to wrangle into place earlier that evening. That every place where their bodies touched zinged. That his heart seemed to pound, and its deafening beat was the only thing he could focus on. That the only thing his heart could focus on was Gregory—his whole world narrowed to Gregory. 

For the last few circuits leading up to this realization Christophe tried to excuse it on nerves, paranoia, and the strange atmosphere. But these excuses could only go so far, and Christophe was not stupid. He knew the diagnoses all these symptoms indicated. 

It seemed that once again, The Mole had a little bit of a big problem. Thanks a fucking lot, God. 

 

The waltz ended, the boys chatted for a bit, and Gregory remained oblivious to his friend’s distraction. Eventually he went to go dance with some more girls, more potential matches to advance the family’s connections. Christophe observed from the sidelines as before, but his expression was now more contemplative than displeased.   

 

“May I cut in?” The girl in the plum dress looked downright affronted as Christophe quite literally stole her dance partner. She stomped away to go stew by the punch bowl. Among the crowd, titters of disapproval began to rise. 

“Christophe!” Gregory hissed. “That was Pamela of Yorktown, her father is a very important client! You promised me you’d behave!” 

“Désolé, mon cher.” 

“Don’t you ‘mon cher’ me! What is it?!” 

“I must speak with you, alone. Go apologize to that girl, dance with another, and then come find me in the gardens. C’est tres important.” Before Gregory could ask any of the questions springing to mind, such as “Why?” or, “Are you sure you’re alright?” Christophe slipped away with a bow. Gregory scowled at his retreating figure, then straightened his cuff-links and set out to repair Pamela of Yorktown’s fragile ego.  

 

Gregory found him under his mother’s favorite gazebo for taking her tea during springtime, smoking a cigarette. “It is about fucking time you got here, crétin.” Gregory sighed wistfully. 

“I’m going to miss you not cursing fit to curdle milk every sentence.” 

“Do not be such a whiny bitch. It is unbecoming, and you need all the grace you can get.” Christophe took one last drag on his cigarette, threw it on the white-painted floorboards, and ground it out under his heel. Gregory opened his mouth to point out the cigar tray in the tea set less than ten feet away, reconsidered, and closed it. “I am not about to let God fuck me over, especially not like this,” the Frenchman announced. “If He thinks I am too timid to object to His disgustingly transparent attempt to make me miserable, He’d better think a-fucking-gain. Viens ici.” Gregory complied, strolling over to Christophe’s side of the gazebo, leaning on the railing. He looked out over the gardens, trying for a casual air despite his bewilderment.  

“So, Christophe. What’s so urgent that you have to pull me away from the party to discuss it?” There was no verbal reply. Instead, impatient hands grasped at Gregory’s shoulders and forcibly turned him around, hands that had already become smudged with dirt in less than a quarter of an hour. Then a pair of lips were pressed against his, warm and insistent. After a few long moments—during which Gregory’s hands spasmed at his sides and a million little thoughts whirling a million miles per hour rallied for attention, and he was just contemplating ignoring all of these conflicting voices in his head and giving into the pleasant sensation—Christophe pulled away. He tilted his head, pensive and analytical in a way Christophe rarely was. 

“Hmm.” 

“Hmm what!?” Gregory spluttered, red in the face and rapidly losing the cool he’d tried to amass earlier. “What was that?!” 

“That was a yes, I think.” 

“Yes what!?!” 

“Yes, that was something I found enjoyable. Et toi?”  

“Y—you can’t—you don’t just snog people out of the blue Chris!!!”  

“I will take that as a no. D’accord. I would apologize, but I am not sorry.” 

“That wasn’t a no!” Gregory amended, his voice rapidly deteriorating into something close to a shriek. “I was just, startled! And more than a little bewildered!” 

“Well make up your mind then.” 

“It’s not that simple!” 

“Why not?” 

“Well, I have no idea if I like boys for one thing! It’s something I haven’t considered before!” Christophe groaned. 

"Mon dieu, tu es  _très_ stupide… Gregory, you make things too complicated. The world would be a lot better if we all kept things simple and direct. You like someone, you kiss them. If they're interested, they will kiss back. In my opinion—which is, of course, the correct opinion—boxing affection into labels and rules is complete bullshit. The kind of top-tier of bullshitery of which only love itself and that eternal cock-sucking bastard God who created it are greater. Now, you feel in a similar sort of way, oui ou non?" 

“I… oui?” Christophe narrowed his eyes. 

“Are you sure?”  

“Yes,” Gregory admitted, “Oui, oui I’m sure.” Even as he said it, he could feel the truth behind the statement, strong as the well-considered foundation of a house preventing it from collapsing into ruin and deceit. Gregory did not have much experience with relationships yet, the sole person he’d ever sought after romantically was Wendy. What he had with Christophe was  _very_ different from Wendy, but it was no less valid. It already had loyalty and affection, and upon closer examination, Gregory realized that the potential for a more romantic sort of affection was definitely there, and it would be as easy to reach as stepping through a doorway, as having the right frame of mind. He’d never opened that door before because he wasn’t aware of it, but now that he was, he couldn’t go back to his naivety. He wanted too badly to see what was on the other side.  

Christophe smiled at the blond with uncommon tenderness. “Okay.” 

“So… what happens now?” 

“First, I get through this shithole of a party without fetching my shovel from my room and decapitating someone. After that we go back to South Park and do what we normally do, except we also kiss sometimes. And go on dates as well, if you want that kind of pussy romantic sham.” 

“Why, yes. As a matter of fact I  _do_ expect you to properly woo me. Which means dates.”  

“Very well, mon cœur,” Gregory felt his breath catch as Christophe wrapped an arm around his waist, pulled him close, and began lightly nuzzling his cheek and jawline with his nose. “Prepare to be wooed. Shall I start with flowers? There are more than enough here to satisfy.” 

“Christophe, you are NOT digging up my mother’s rose garden!!!” The Mole laughed, and promised absolutely nothing regarding the safety of the roses.  


End file.
